The Seer and the Time Traveler
by dethrone.jane
Summary: After the Second Wizarding War ended horribly, the Savior of Britain traveled to the past in order to reverse the death of his loved ones, stumbling across a seemingly mentally-ill girl who claimed to be able to see the future.
1. Chapter 1

**I know how annoying a long author note is, so I will make this quick. Thank you for clicking! I hope you find this story interesting, at the very least. This story contains a lot of Harry Potter verse, so if you're not familiar with it, you will probably be confused. I'm not going to rewrite things that J.K. Rowling already wrote (DISCLAIMER! Harry Potter is NOT mine!), but if you have some questions, feel free to state them in your review or PM me-either way is fine. Oh, if you want answers to your review, be sure to enable PM and to not post anonymously (how can I respond?) Thank you for taking your time to read this. Enjoy the ride!**

**Warning : Character Death, OOC, Angst**

**Thank you for Kyle Heatherwings and George Heathcliff for proofreading this! (despite Kyle's resistance to read anything long and George's disgust towards Twilight verse in general)**

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><p><strong>THE SEER AND THE TIME TRAVELER<strong>

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><p><em>"Even if it turns out that time travel is impossible, it is important that we understand why it is impossible."<em>

_(Stephen Hawking)_

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><p><strong>(Misf<strong>**ortune)**

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><p>Not many considered <em>Love <em>to be associated with magic, but the minority who did was few of the wisest wizards to ever walk on earth. _Love _is the strongest form of emotion; brighter than hate and more intense than vengeance. The brightest of the minds theorized that there was a vital difference between magic done with hatred and the one with love—the latter has more intensity, stronger willpower to win for the sake of those one wants to protect.

Love was what saved the Chosen One that night. The pure, undivided love of a mother for her child deflected the darkest form of magic with which humans had interfered. The mother, knowing that her death was imminent, willed for nothing but the survival of her only child. The murderer, intending to kill a hopeless baby, was torn apart.

Love is never logical. But it exists in every person. It grows accordingly, changing its form constantly, greatly affected by the experiences one has gained. Every experience shapes love, and love shapes actions in the future, thus shaping every new experience itself. Love is very, very dangerous to be tampered with.

Love can create peace, but love isn't equal to peace. Love saved the Boy-Who-Lived that night, but it was also love which destroyed him.

A young man's hoarse scream echoed in the deafening silence. His green eyes were full of tears, mixing with blood as they fell down his cheek. His left hand was fixed on the floor, and the other was repeatedly surging, creating a breaking sound with every swing. His right fist was bleeding, probably even broken, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. All he could feel was hatred, exploding in his chest everytime his fist connected with the pale, snake-like face which was hardly recognizable at this point. Blood covered almost all of his face—except for the lifeless, icy blue eyes that couldn't look at the boy before them anymore.

For a second, those icy blue eyes suddenly belonged to someone else—bright green eyes like his own. He gasped, instantly backing off, fear gripping his heart. His shouts echoed, repeating both in the hall and in his head. He had been screaming for too long that his brain seemed to be accustomed to it—and at once, his screams started to turn into the screams of everyone else.

Harry James Potter raked his hair very hard that his scalp bled, one last screech escaping his mouth before he lost consciousness.

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><p><strong>June 11th, 1999<strong>

"Back again, Mr. Potter? Been two years since I last saw you."

Ollivander stood behind the counter, gesturing Harry to come in even though the young man was already in. He gave him a kind look—one of both gratitude and pity—that the young man utterly despised. Harry swallowed the harsh words on the tip of his tongue and said instead, "There's something that I want to ask you."

The old man looked at him curiously. "What is it?"

"I know you're familiar with the Fenderstein theory."

Ollivander appeared impassive, but Harry was sharp enough to see his eyes slightly widening, showing sudden discomfort.

"I do," Ollivander confirmed, casually placing wand boxes into the correct shelves. It gave Harry a flash of a memory—the first time he entered the shop with the insufferable, yet kindest giant he had ever met. "And many others do too. It was quite a popular theory in my teenage years, Mr. Potter. Unfortunately, I've never been very interested in it. I'm afraid you've gone to the wrong person. Albus wasn't very interested in it either, but he knew more than I did."

Harry smiled pleasantly. "I know you've tried it."

All four boxes that Ollivander was holding fell, its crash contrast to the silence that followed. The old man slowly turned to Harry in the way Dumbledore used to in dire situations; widened blue eyes, mouth slightly agape, and suddenly Harry was smashed with another memory.

"_No.. Don't.. Give me.."_

"_Professor, you have to drink this."_

"_Please.."_

"_You have to."_

Ollivander's words snapped him out of his reverie. "As a matter of fact, yes I did. It's not something I'm proud of, Mr. Potter. Surely you understand. All you need to know is that I failed."

"Oh, I know you failed," Harry said. "I'm not here to ask you how I can get it done. I don't have to. I've figured it out."

Ollivander stilled. His eyes darkened, his jaw set. "That's not possible."

"Took me two years, so yeah it's bloody hard. But impossible? No. See—there's a difference between a teenager driven by curiosity and one driven by the borderline of sanity and insanity. I figured it all out, Mr. Ollivander," Harry looked him in the eye. "I can get it done—I _will _get it done if you lend me a hand on this. It requires the job of a very competent wandmaker."

There was a flicker in the old man's eyes. Desire. Thirst to pursue his long-lost dream. But it died as quickly as it rose. Ollivander shook his head forcefully. "I told you. I failed. I can't make that wand."

"You will have my instructions. An access to information that you didn't know back then."

Harry could tell that the old man was tempted. The Boy-Who-Lived was baiting him with the rotten apple; ugly, twisted, yet enticing. He was swinging the key for the lost chest of the old man's young years that could spark something in him again.

"I don't have a reason to help you," Ollivander said flatly, his eyes showing guilt as he said this. Clearly, he remembered Harry taking him out of Malfoy's Manor two years ago.

"Not many people come to your door to drag you into a fairly dangerous plan, sir," Harry said. "And not many bring you the very specific type of plan—plan that you've been dying to get your hands on for decades. As much as you claim that you love wandmaking, the monotonous ritual bores you; you want something more—something huge. You want to prove to yourself that you're not an ordinary wandmaker. That you're more than your father ever was. And this, Mr. Ollivander, will be the breakthrough of wand-making. This will be your mark on this world, before you depart for the next one."

Harry took several steps closer to the booth. He placed his wand on the table, smiling at the gobsmacked Ollivander.

"So, shall we begin?"

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><p><strong>December 31st, 1999<strong>

The quiet knock on the door jolted Harry out of his sleep. He stood, momentarily giving himself a chance to adapt, before walking to the door of his flat. He had discarded Sirius' house and moved everything he had—which wasn't much—to a medium-sized flat in London, living in the horde of muggles. There was something calming in living alone in a world that didn't have magic—for a moment, he could pretend that such a monstrosity never existed in the first place.

The visitor turned out to be his favorite wandmaker. Ollivander stood, shaking from the cold weather. On his hands, there was a black box. Harry stared at it. "You've finished?"

"Yes," Ollivander said. "Now do let me in, Potter. It's freezing out here."

After both of them were in and the door was locked (manually), Ollivander opened the box and took out the wand. It was hard and inflexible, cold and unbreakable.

"12 inches, steel, blood," Ollivander's voice trembled. "Your blood, Mr. Potter."

Then he handed the wand to Harry with carefulness of a mother handing out her baby. Harry received it just as gently. He could understand Ollivander's attachment towards the wand. He stared at its beauty, at its deadly appearance that made his stomach lurched with excitement.

"Are you sure?" Ollivander asked. His voice was quiet, shaky.

Harry turned to him, to really observe him. There were uncertainty and fear in his eyes. "You have doubt in your own creation?"

"No," Ollivander immediately answered, a little offended. "I know it's going to work. What I don't know is whether you're prepared for the consequences."

Then Harry found what was so familiar with the look on Ollivander's eyes. It was the same expression Remus wore when he knew the three of them were going straight to danger, and the older man could do nothing to help. He was surprised by Ollivander's sentiment. Ollivander never seemed to be a person who truly cared for anything aside from wands.

"I've been prepared ever since the first time I've heard about it," Harry told him. These words had no effect on Ollivander's apparent worries. The old man kept pacing in Harry's small flat, perhaps thinking to convince him against this. He was the first to try, yet he was too late.

Harry held the wand high, pointing to the ceiling.

"What?" Ollivander said, baffled. "Now? Here?"

"Most of the building's inhabitants are out celebrating New Year. The only one left is a couple in the first floor, which I estimate won't be affected by the magic output, which won't be destructive."

He prided himself for the lack of excitement slipping in his voice. He could barely keep himself from trembling.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the cripples on his skin, the magic flowing in his veins. It was the oddest sensation he had ever come across. It felt like there were various streams in every part of his body, trying to get to the same exit on his right hand. All of his senses became overwhelmed, and he felt that he was floating, but his vision was too blurred to find out if he was.

With his last sense that was still activated normally, he turned to where Ollivander last stood and spoke, "Happy New Year, Mr. Ollivander."

Harry heard him shout "Harry!"—_Harry_, not Potter—as he felt like he was twisted, churned, impaled and kicked in all his sides, entering a vortex that led him to the past.

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><p><strong>November 8th, 1917<strong>

Harry woke up with a severe headache, possibly broken ribs, and ringing in his ears. It took him quite a moment before he realized that he was lying on a bed—not a comfortable one, but a bed nonetheless. For a second, his heart almost stopped when his brain registered his surrounding as Hogwart's infirmary, but apparently it was just a normal infirmary with similar bed rest setting. Upon closer look, Harry noticed that the room was smaller, and had much less white. The curtains that covered the window were ragged and dirty, the corners of the ceiling were occupied by fungi. And that there was a pretty brunette with a long hair, her pale face curious and worried.

"Where am I?" Harry immediately tried to sit, which was a gross mistake. There was a rather loud _crack_, and the girl beside him freaked out more than he did.

"Don't move!" She hissed with ferocity that he didn't think a timid-looking girl like her possessed. "You've been unconscious for ten days—"

"Ten days?" Harry repeated flatly. He had just lost four important days unconscious. The girl nodded.

Harry tried to move again, but the pain was almost unbearable. He turned to her and asked, "Could you give me a moment? Just turn around. Please."

There was no doubt that she was absolutely confused with his request, but she did turn her back. He held a sigh; it was a very foolish move. Had he been enemy undercover, she would've been dead.

But he wasn't, fortunately for her. So he took this chance to grab his wand from his jeans, and cast a few spells non-verbally. He could already feel his limbs snapping together, his nose healing itself, and the cuts throughout his body slowly closed. The only thing left was his headache; which, while decreased significantly, was still there.

"I'm done. Thank you."

When she turned around, Harry finally took her appearance; she was average height, but a little underweight, which became quite obvious with the oversized, dirty garment she wore. Her hair texture seemed to be straight and soft, but grease caused it to look fuller. Her skin was pale, without scars, but dirty and there were dark area under her bright blue eyes. Her lips were perfectly proportioned to her face, but dry and rough.

Harry couldn't help asking. "What are you on the run for?"

Her face was still, impassive. The only sign of reaction was the slight widening of her eyes and it was enough for Harry to know that he was right. She barely opened her mouth until there was a huge sound of a ringing bell that echoed in the bright, vast room they were in.

The gravity of the situation felt like ice over him. "What date is it?"

She tilted her head, "November 8th."

Harry stared at her impatiently. "Year?"

Her eyes narrowed at the question, but Harry urged her to answer. "1917."

Harry cursed loudly, ignoring the girl's indignant cry. He meant to travel to 1926 and he was sent nine years further. He immediately jumped off the bed, ignoring her again, spinning around the room as he thought furiously. What went wrong? What did he miscalculate?

Information that he read from ancient books began to flash inside his mind, as he concentrated immensely to find the right one.

"_The essence of time is absolute. Once one tampers, the effect leads to numerous alternatives. These—"_

"_Few wizards know that time is a flow of magic. If one could control magic well enough, then the subject of time is not impossible, even though—"_

"—_traveling back in time requires the highest sacrifice from an individual—"_

"—_blood, only the blood of the one who means to travel—"_

"—_the only essence strong enough to withstand blood is steel, which is __almost impossible to attempt__ since steel is never alive—"_

"—_precision depends on concentration of the surroundings, not the date—"_

There. There it was. His gross miscalculation was the object of his concentration. He had concentrated on the date, yet time had existed much farther before the system of dates that human created. The magic of time never kept count of the date; it kept count of the events that occurred. This meant that the date that he was thinking of was something of significance here. Harry swiftly turned to the girl that he had completely forgotten yet was still transfixed on him. "Have you got newspaper?"

"I don't read newspaper," She said, still eyeing him strangely. "But perhaps there's some on the first floor."

By the end of her sentence, he was already out of the door. There was an exasperated sigh that followed, and apparently the girl followed him. Harry couldn't have a person suddenly following him around, but he could deal with it later. Once he was on the first floor, he snatched a newspaper from an obese old man, replying his "Oi!" with a humm.

His eyes scanned for the date. December 31, 1926.

"December 31st, December 31st.."

"Oi, lad," The old man from whom he snatched the newspaper said irritably. "You do know I'm reading those, right?"

He interjected, "You heard anything about December 31st?"

The man was still glaring at him, but Harry simply rose his eyebrows in expectation. With a sigh, he said, "Couldn't think of anything."

Before Harry could press more, the round man stood and snatched the paper roughly out of his hands. He stalked off, grumbling through the entire corridor, while Harry was still fixating on the significance of the date which he needed to find in order to validate his earlier theory.

He didn't even notice the girl was already catching up to him until her hand touched her back. There was something odd in her blue eyes; a mix of fear, uncertainty and curiosity. "Why are you so interested in that particular date?"

"No reason," Harry lied smoothly, though not subtly. He saw no reason giving very important bit of his plan to a stranger—even worse, a muggle.

Harry paced in the now empty corridor—except for the girl and himself, wondering what the wise move would be. Brainstorming for the possible reasons of his failure of traveling to the right time was the safest option, but prolonging his stay wasn't an option. He supposed he'd have to take the risk and try his theory.

He was about to flee the building when something clicked in his mind. He spun, his eyes immediately finding the girl looking him with an expression he couldn't quite place. Sadness, more likely. But why?

Then he understood why. He had bristled at the fact that ten days passed without him doing anything, so he had forgotten the fact that the girl had done everything to keep him alive. And it wasn't an easy feat, as she was seemingly unable to take proper care of herself. He didn't even know how she got him into this building, which wasn't a hospital, but looked like one. He almost fled without showing an ounce of gratitude. Social interactions were something that he had detached from himself for a long time; it wasn't a wonder that his sensitivity turned dull.

Harry walked a couple of steps to approach her. When he was finally in front of her, he said with the most sincerity he could muster, "Thank you."

He almost didn't notice that the corner of her lips quirked up. His eyes were fixed on her big blue eyes, which stared at him with burning intensity for completely unknown reason. His mind was boggled by this; by the fact that she stared at him so blandly and the fact that his eyes somehow couldn't look away.

Suddenly, a trivial question slipped right out of his mouth, "What's your name?"

He didn't quite know why he asked, since the information was completely irrelevant and he would most likely forget them in hours.

It was a fairly easy question, but her eyebrows furrowed. After a few seconds, she answered. "Alice."

The way she struggled to give her name could mean two things. First, that it wasn't her real name. Second, that it was, but she was distasteful towards it. Yet two conditions didn't match as she smiled like there was pride and humor at the same time. It seemed like 'Alice' was the name that she _chose_, but at the same time born with. Perhaps a nickname. Or middle name. Or maybe an anagram of her given name. And he couldn't place a reason. Harry almost asked again, but decided against it, inwardly chastising himself for almost getting distracted.

It was Alice's turn to ask. "And yours?"

It felt rather convenient that Alice only gave her first name. Harry gave her a small, tired smile. "Harry." _Just Harry._

Alice kept staring at him, half-smiling, as if she was trying to read his thoughts. He stared back, unable to direct his gaze away from her. She kept looking at him as if he was a blind man that couldn't catch her looking. The seconds that passed were excruciatingly slow, and after exactly five seconds, Harry bid her goodbye and walked towards the door.

"Will I see you again?"

This question stopped him in the hallway. It was spoken quietly, softly, like she had already known she would be disappointed by his answer. He turned so he could study her face. Her blue eyes were wide, full of wonder. "If fate commands it."

That was a horrendous lie. They would never see each other again, because that was the last day he ever went to 1917.

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><p><strong>December 31st, 1926<strong>

Harry arrived safely, standing in in a small, dark alley that he imagined. He was in one piece, but his head was pounding mercilessly that he fell down to his knees. He stayed still for a while, soaking in the heavy rain. There was again ringing in his ears. He hated this part—the part of withstanding pain that he didn't understand. It was one thing to be under Cruciatus curse, knowing exactly how or why it hurt. It was another to be curling on the street because the pain in his body was too much, and the theories inside his head didn't make sense.

_At least he was conscious._ When the pain began to fade, he grabbed a hold of his wand and let the magic fix his wounds. The pain lessened gradually, but the pounding in his head and the ringing is his ears were unfixable by magic. He had to wait for a while, until they started to disappear. Finally, after ten minutes or so, Harry was able to stand without feeling bludgers banging on his head.

After an hour of standing in a small, dark alley, soaked because of the rain, Harry's eyes finally spotted a thin woman with round stomach that seemed too heavy for her fragile figure. Merope Gaunt. Harry watched like a hawk as she screamed in front of the orphanage's door, her legs twisting in pain. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. His stare was fixed on her as she fell down, hands hitting the marble floor wildly, her eyes mad. The image of the birth of Tom Riddle burned in his mind, causing his chest to feel heavier. Finally, after Tom Riddle was almost out, the door opened and a round, elderly woman squeaked in utter surprise.

The old woman immediately stepped over Merope Gaunt and took the newborn into her arms. Harry watched, unmoving, as Merope said how she wished that little Riddle would look like his handsome father, and he was to be named Tom, after his father, Marvolo, after her father, and Riddle as his last name.

Not long after that, Riddle's mother breath hitched, and Harry froze.

His hand subconsciously reached for his wand, the incantation to heal her almost slipped out of his lips. Four years ago, it would have slipped without a second thought and future Tom Riddle would grow up with a mother—a mentally damaged one, but a mother nonetheless. However, four years had passed and things that he didn't even have the courage to imagine occurred. Voices started to fill his ears. Screams, to be exact. Then, a sea of faces. All of them were hollow. Empty. Lifeless.

Harry's eyes opened in a flash. His right hand dropped.

Exactly twenty three seconds later, Riddle's mother stopped breathing.

'_We're so alike, you and I.'_

His knuckles went white, his nails drawing blood. Because no matter how hard he denied it in the past, it was all true. Harry was Riddle. And Riddle was Harry.

He merely watched as panic began to overtake the elderly woman. Soon, the dead road was ignited with whispers and hushes. Only several of those who gathered to watch actually did something to move the dead woman. A rough, middle-aged man carried her with difficulty that he tried not to show. Slytherin's pure blood trailed down Riddle's Mother's leg, dripping to the road, stepped on by muggles.

Harry almost smiled. _At its rightful place._

It was when the commotion died that Harry finally moved from his spot. He had been waiting for hours—no, two years to set his foot on this doorstep. The tip of the wand touched the door knob and it opened without a sound. He stepped in. Thunders began to light the dark sky.

His grip on the wand tightened. He refused to associate this moment to anything else—it was in no way similar to anything he ever experienced.

One step. Two steps. He walked up the wooden stairs with great weight dragging his feet. Thunder exploded again causing the room to be blindingly bright for a second. His steps hesitated. During that one second, his eyes registered a body lying on the floor, black hair disheveled, brown eyes opened behind broken glasses.

But it was merely an illusion; his mind playing tricks on him.

The door creaked slightly as it opened, and the woman in the room instantly turned around to see him. A streak of red light caused her to be unconscious before she could beg for the baby's life. See? It was different.

He pointed his wand at the small baby in the cradle. He should've cast the damn spell right there, but curiosity got the better of him. He took a few steps closer, until his left hand touched the wooden cradle.

Harry didn't know what he expected—maybe a set of cold, blue eyes filled with malicious indifference. What he saw was a pair of blue eyes, slightly opened, brimming with innocence.

He was trembling. He didn't know why. He couldn't back away; it would be equal to throwing away two years of his life dedicated only for this moment. He couldn't fail because of a single moment of weakness.

Tears blurred his vision. Out of nowhere, the hazy image before him distorted, and he saw Tom Riddle staring at him from the other side of the mirror.

He blinked. He turned his focus to the tiny figure before him. Magic began to gather in his fingertips.

"Harry."

The voice sounded very real. As if she was here, speaking to him. Gently. Lovingly.

"You're so loved. You're so loved."

_Focus._

"Mama loves you. Dada loves you."

_Remember the incantation. Cast the spell._

"Harry, be safe. Be strong."

His knees hit the ligneous floor. There was something indescribable that shattered him, pieces to even smaller pieces until it felt like he was merely as big as his tears. His wand was dropped, long forgotten, as he struggled to restrain himself from falling and lying so that he could release the weight on every inch of his body, and the heaviest, and most crucial part—his chest.

Slowly, his heartbeat started to steady. Tears began to dry, and his strength began to return and voices in his head were no more. He took the steel wand in his hand as he stood. The baby was there, staring at him with morbid interest and a little touch of fear—as if he knew what Harry was about to do.

Harry took a deep, shaky breath.

"We're different after all. You and me."

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><p><strong>October 15th, 1991<strong>

The next one was in 1991. This was never part of the plan, but his mind was tangled, filled with uncontrollable anguish and disgust towards himself. His memory was blurred, painted with too many red that it was hard to see the details that he needed. He was unthinking, ignoring the temporary pain that his body started to get used to, as he appeared in the same, familiar corridor that he had lived in for seven years and walked and walked until he found the door.

The room was empty, without a single person under disillusionment charm. He began to wonder why, but that train of thoughts only lasted a second until his eyes caught the huge mirror at the center of the room.

Harry walked, eyes wide, until he was merely a step away from the glass. His eyes were fixed on the faces that welcomed him; faces that had been taken from him. The ones that should have lived.

"I'll see you again," He said. "Everything that's happened—I'm going to prevent it."

The faces behind the mirror smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>August 5th, 1925<strong>

Harry sent himself a few decades back, appearing next to the house that Dumbledore once showed him through a memory. The Gaunt's residence was seemingly empty, lacking Marvolo Gaunt's violent shouts and Morfin's vile guffaws. This should be the time where Merope was finally alone, freed from her abusive family's grasp. Harry walked closer to the house, and peeked through the window.

At first he thought that there was no one inside, but there was Merope, her hair lank and dull, with garment as dark as the house's interior. She was doing something, but the object of her concentration was blocked by her body in his view; what he did notice was that her right hand seemed to be moving in steady, circular motion. Harry's eyes narrowed as pink smoke seemed to drift from her front. He'd recognize that particular potion anytime and anyplace. Amortentia.

Disgust and hatred stirred in Harry. He detested manipulation; especially those who toyed with emotions that were too personal; too private. Nothing held him back as walked briskly to the front door, unlocked it, and pointed it squarely aiming on her chest.

Merope Gaunt barely had a time to react. Her mouth opened to scream, but before the words were out, the green light hit her and she fell, eyes wide and unseeing.

* * *

><p><strong>January 1st, 2000<strong>

Drops of rain pulled Harry back to consciousness, his back flat on the hard, cold stone that was the floor of Gaunt's. He didn't understand why he blacked out, but his mind immediately jumped to more important things and he quickly stood, composing himself. He had to blink a few times until he regained perfect vision, and in front of him, lied Merope Gaunt, lifeless like a ragged doll.

He couldn't lie—not to himself. He couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up. Twisted satisfaction lit his chest, cheering for the death of a mad woman that he didn't even personally know. Some part of him, deep down, the untainted and so like past version of himself, felt ill for both the sight and his uncontrollable reaction towards it. Mostly, though, Harry Potter was smiling.

Perhaps something had snapped inside of him. It was the last thing of his concern—he was now filled with hope so dangerously much that he was now trembling. It took every bit of his energy to point the wand upwards and let the vortex chewed him alive, enduring the pain that was always the same but never familiar.

There were many, many possibilities that his mind calculated for the outcome of his action. But not one of them resulted him standing still before the same two, unmoving and unchanging, tombstones.

_Here Lie_

_The Heroes of the Second Wizarding War_

_RONALD WEASLEY_

_HERMIONE GRANGER_

The world seemed to stop. Everything—people, dogs, leaves, time, his brain, his breath, his heartbeat. Then all of a sudden, before his brain could process any little trivial thing, memories crashed, invading the only sense of his that was still working. Flashes of blood, of flesh, of dead eyes burned in his mind, reeling like an old movie, repetitive like a broken record. Then his sense of hearing was awakened by screams of two people in the world that he loved the most. Then his sense of smell was relieving how iron-like blood scent was, and suddenly there was the taste of it in his mouth.

"_No_," Harry growled lowly. He would not do this to himself.

_This is not the end of the world._

It was merely a glitch in his plan. He would return, research more, and find what it was and fix it. Nothing could stop him from doing this. He had done his waiting, he had paid his price. He would have them back.

Harry stared at the tombstone with bizarre mixture of hatred and fondness. He sighed, raked his hair and kneeled in front of them. It was odd how different it was between standing and kneeling before them; when he kneeled, somehow, he felt their presence. It was as if they were kneeling with him, with her trying to smile and embrace him and the redhead beside her trying not to cry but miserably failing. He was crashed with a different set of emotions that he couldn't quite place. In the midst of it, a part of his mind thought how easy it was to simply let go.

He snorted at the ridiculous notion. It was not something that he wished for himself; it was something that haunted him. He would've let go if it was possible. But it wasn't. No matter how thin the string he was hanging on, he couldn't let go.

It's bizarre. Love, that is.


	2. Chapter 2

**I was told that it takes a few times to understand what was going in the first chapter, and the fact that my story isn't understandable horrifies me. I will probably edit it later, but for now I'm thinking of advancing things first. So, I will break down what happened in the first chapter. DON'T READ THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH IF YOU'D LIKE TO FIGURE IT OUT BY READING IT YOURSELF.**

**The war ended horribly, killing a lot of people, including Ron and Hermione. This sent Harry, who couldn't accept it, into a huge obsession to reverse what happened. He spent two years researching about time travel and when he finally got the information he needed, he went to Ollivander for help. At the first attempt of time-traveling, he was accidentally sent to the wrong time, becoming unconscious for ten days. In these ten days, Alice was the one who found him and took care of him. When he awoke, he interacted with Alice for a bit and found her interesting, but not exactly important.**

**Then Harry went to the time when Voldemort (Tom Riddle) was born. He planned to kill him as a newborn but the memory of the night Voldemort killed his parents and tried to kill him (From Snape'spensieve) kept crashing back to him. In the end, his humanity won and he refrained from killing Voldemort. After this, he went to 1991 (to his first year) to look at the Mirror of Erised to calm himself. In the reflection, he saw people he had lost, including Ron and Hermione. This triggered Harry's hate again, and he proceeded to go to Merope's time before she was pregnant and killed her. Theoretically, it should change everything. So Harry was hopeful when he went back to his time, right to the graveyeard where the war casualties were buried. It turned out, somehow, that nothing was changed and his best friends were still dead.**

**That being said, thank you for everyone that reviewed and favorited and alerted my story! It really means a lot.**

**I'd also like to thank people who had taken the time to review: President Waffles, ILikeComps, unwrittenlegacy, amata0221, Ricky12440, senpen banka, Universal-Public-Cockblocker and Sundavr**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2 Retrieval<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>June 11th, 1999<strong>

"_How can you not see it? He doesn't talk, he barely eats. He's depressed."_

_The whisper was low, well kept. Had Harry not accidentally walked through the other side of the corridor, he would never hear what came from Neville Longbottom's mouth. Harry stopped in his tracks. He almost kept walking, as he did nothing wrong, but curiosity glued him to the floor._

"_But he's _Harry_," Ginny Weasley answered, as if she had pointed out the obvious._

"_What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"_

_There was a span of seconds in which Ginny paced around the room, clearly exasperated. "He's Harry. He doesn't get depressed. I couldn't even count the horrible things he had faced but he never falls for it, you know. He goes straight back up."_

"_Ginny, this is different," Neville spoke slowly, precisely voicing Harry's thoughts. "It's..Ron and Hermione."_

_Silence followed. Then, very quietly, Ginny said, "Ron's my brother. Hermione's my friend. I—I loved them as much as he did."_

_When Neville didn't answer, she continued, "I.. I just don't understand. I lost two brothers that night. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but I thought that the two of us—Harry and I—could, you know, face it together."_

"_That's not fair," Neville protested. "There's something that you just can't share with others. Harry's just happens to be grief."_

"_It's almost been two years!" Ginny said hotly, the shadow of tears in her voice. Harry saw Neville backing up a bit, clearly regretting the dam that he just broke. "I waited six years to be his girlfriend, one year when he was going after Voldemort, and now he's got me waiting. Again. Two years. Total? Nine years, Nev. Nine. How long do I have to wai__t__?"_

_And Harry left, not really caring whether they heard his steps. He needed air, to cleanse the water that seemed to fill his lungs._

_He never expected her to understand. He never expected _anyone _to understand, because he didn't fully understand it himself. He couldn't comprehend the coldness that surrounded him, unable to wonder why or how he couldn't escape. There were so many lies that he told himself before, that everything was going to be fine and he would be able to live with his life again and become a Quidditch star, but the truth was that two years later, he was still trapped. It was possible to recover after Sirius's death—or Cedric, Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody—because he had the two of them holding his back. With the two most important people in this world gone, it simply seemed impossible to crawl, let alone walk through the life in which the world saw 'Savior'. Not Harry. Never Harry._

_For the past two years, Ginny had been the last thing in his mind. He genuinely hoped that she would let him go—that she would get the hint that she had been waiting for nothing. He felt nothing under her comforting hands. He felt nothing seeing tears brimming in her eyes. He felt nothing when she kissed him, cried and shouted at him for not kissing her back—five months after their deaths._

_It was when Ginny was actually beside him that Harry's attention was back to his surroundings._

_They didn't say anything to each other for a long time. He stared at her and she stared at him, both with different emotion but the same intensity. Ginny blinked back tears as she started, "Harry, I—"_

"_You're waiting in vain," Harry said. "The Harry you fell in love with—I will never be him again."_

_Perhaps it would have been better if he had just slapped her across her face. Ginny rarely cried. She didn't cry when she was hurt. She didn't cry when she was insulted. She did cry when her loved ones were taken by death, but only in private, where she thought no one else saw. Yet she stood in front of him, sobbing as if he had literally squeezed the air out of her lungs._

"_I'm sorry," He said. He wasn't sorry for what he said. It was the truth. He was sorry that she felt this way._

"_If what you need is more time, then I.. I'll wait," Ginny whispered. "I'll wait. For you, I'll wait for all eternity."_

_It frustrated him. The fact that she held her heart in her hands, offering it to a person who didn't even feel the fraction of her feelings, frustrated him. He really wished that he could feel the same, that feeling what she felt for him could help him get a way out. Yet as he stared at Ginny, heartbroken written in all her features, he searched for emotions inside himself and found none._

"_Eternity will never be enough," He told her, more gently this time. "I'm sorry."_

_He watched her ran away for the last time. There wouldn't be the next one, because in the end, the Girl Who Waited gave up. There was a small part of him that wished she would keep being stubborn, that perhaps the part of her that made him love her in the past would ignite something in his present self. But the opportunity had slipped away, and Harry stared at the horizon with the same, gaping hole in his chest._

* * *

><p><strong>January 2nd, 2000<strong>

The same road. The same sign. The similarity disgusted him. He walked through the same wooden door that created the same ringing bell as he passed, gritting his teeth.

"It didn't work," Harry snapped. "I killed his mother—nothing changed."

Ollivander's head snapped up to look at him. He stared at him for several seconds, scandalized, until he shook his head and continued drinking his tea. "You're sure you killed her?"

"Avada Kedavra," Harry said simply.

Ollivander flinched, but he appeared calmer when he noticed that Harry neither pointed the wand at him nor did he hold it. There was something that was close to sadness in his eyes, which Harry fervently dismissed.

The old man sipped his tea again. "And nothing changed? Nothing at all?"

"The only things that I care about haven't changed a bit."

"Potter, you've got to—"

"I wasn't finished talking," Harry said. "I had just arrived around five hours ago. I went to Hogwart's library and scanned several history books and daily newspapers. So far, I've found nothing different."

"Are you absolutely sure she was dead?" Olivander asked, peering at him the way Dumbledore used to.

Harry smiled bitterly. "There's only one person known to survive the Killing Curse, and it's not her."

Ollivander's shoulder slumped, and he suddenly looked years older than he actually was. Harry threw himself to a rugged couch beside the window. He pulled out his his silver wand which was contrast to the room full of browns and reds. Small sparks erupted from his wand and Harry stared at them as his brain ran.

"Do you really have to do that?" Ollivander asked irritably.

"It—"

"—helps you think," Ollivander finished for him. "I do know. You're always doing that when we're discussing. While it helps _you _think, Potter, it restrains me from doing so, as it is very distracting."

The sparks vanished. Harry straightened, crossed his arms, and looked Ollivander in the eye, expecting him to start sprouting out theories.

Ollivander stood and began pacing across the room. "I'm afraid I'm not quite the expert on this, Potter. What you have done should have affected the future greatly. Ending Slytherin's blood before V-Voldemort was even created was a terrifying idea, but undeniably brilliant. I honestly don't know why it didn't change anything."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. His headache was still there, little but distracting. "Is there any person that could possibly know about this?"

Ollivander stayed quiet for a while. Harry had read a lot about human interactions solely to avoid being manipulated ever again. He respected and loved Dumbledore—he truly did. But what he did to Harry was, in a way, unforgivable. There was something in him that wished to strangle the old man the next time they met. For now, in the world of the living, Ollivander seemed like the next most probable person to pull a trick on him. That was why Harry narrowed his eyes when Ollivander's eyes didn't wander; it immediately went to Harry instead. It seemed that Ollivander had already known said person, but he was deciding whether to offer Harry the information. Harry didn't press or plead, of course. He knew that Ollivander would give in and tell him; the man was too curious of the outcomes of his current time-traveling to restrain himself from telling him.

"It's my father."

It was not the answer that Harry expected. At all. He stared at Ollivander who seemed to grow uncomfortable at the mention of his father. Harry blinked, before asking, "Your father knew about this?"

"The main reason why I was so interested in time-traveling was because I used to see my father working on it," Ollivander admitted. Harry found it very hard to imagine; like Dumbledore, his brain seemed to register Ollivander as eternally old. It was odd to even picture him as a little boy.

"I grew up peeking at his work, and getting beaten when I was caught for it. No—do not look at me like that. My father was a great, just man and he did what he needed to do to raise the only child to inherit the wandmaking business. I couldn't get distracted with dangerous fantasies—studying wands had to be a priority. Of course, my young, reckless past self didn't accept it. The more he restrained me, the more I searched. I had searched and searched through countless books in his library, but none of them could ever point out to the..experiments he did."

Harry straightened. "Experiments?"

"Yes, yes.."Ollivander's eyes wandered far away. "It was horrible, you see. Father had a small chamber underground, and he was the only one permitted to enter. But the door was wood, and I could see golden lights escaping through the gap. And there were days where he came out all bloody and bruised, too. His wand cracked, almost like yours did, but not that severe. Seeing all these, I did my own research but nothing matched the things my father did. To this day, I still didn't know his sources."

"Well, when is it?"

"Potter, be rational," Ollivander said. "I do not know precisely when my father stored the information. He could've read it once, memorized it and burned it. Traveling through time for something so uncertain is foolish. You are aware that this, Potter, is very dangerous—"

"I know the extent of my abilities," Harry said flatly. "When is it?"

Ollivander stared at him, his eyes as hard as stone. For a second, there was something else that flashed across his face; something that Harry wasn't quite sure of. Then Ollivander sighed and said, "Most likely when I was still in my mother's womb; a time period in which father used to disappear a lot, according to my mother."

"I see," Harry said. "May I see her face?"

Ollivander knew that Harry was simply being polite. Harry had already pointed the wand on the old man, ready to cast the spell no matter what his answer was. Ollivander sighed, "Sure."

It was odd how it was rather easy to master Legilimency, despite how much Harry hated it. Perhaps it was because Harry had been the one receiving the end of it for so long, that his mind had already adapted with being intruded, or intruding someone else's. He saw a flash of Ollivander's mother's face, their house, and it was enough.

Harry stood up, muttered a low 'thank you', and went for the door. His hand was about to reach the doorknob when Ollivander said, "Harry."

He didn't turn around. The tone in the old man's voice made him hesitant to look at Olivander's expression.

"This—all this. You don't have to do it."

He smiled bitterly. "That thought didn't stop you months ago, did it?"

"Well, no," Ollivander conceded. "But I was consumed with my thirst for this project. The moment you left was when I truly realized the gravity of situation. The repercussions of your actions."

He had thought about the repercussions over and over, but never once did he think against it. Perhaps it was the tone in Ollivander's voice, the worry and a bit of fondness in it,that bugged him. He had seriously contemplated to commit suicide—it was the easiest way to see them again, Hermione, Ron, his father, his mother, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, Fred, Cedric, Tonks, Draco, hell, even Snape. But he couldn't bring himself to do it, not when there was a chance of _not _seeing them after he had jumped blindly to another world. Time-Traveling was both the hardest and the easiest way; the most logical, thrilling concept that he could plan first.

"—_run HARRY! RUN!"_

Harry closed his eyes at the voice that crept to his mind. He took a deep breath, and answered Ollivander before he couldn't speak, "I'll be fine."

Then he bolted out of the door and walked through the crowd with the gaping, bleeding hole in his chest, unable to stop the scene playing in his head.

_"Please, stop. Please.."_

"_DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HER—"_

"_RON—NO—"_

_And then blood. Blood was everywhere. His hands, his clothes, his hair, his face, his lips, his heart._

* * *

><p><strong>March 31st, 1919<strong>

_When Irish eyes are smiling_

_Sure, 'tis like the morn in Spring_

_In the lilt of Irish laughter_

_You can hear the angels sing_

For a second, Harry thought he was in heaven. Or at least, his original perception of heaven—if it did exist—containing something soft underneath him as he lied, staring at the blue sky, accompanied by birds' chirping and angel's singing. It turned out that he was lying on a pile of straws which was placed next to a small, ordinary muggle house that seemed like a much more ancient version of the Dursley's.

But the song that came from the inside of the house was truly heavenly. Harry slowly stood after the mystery woman sang the bit that she repeated over and over again. He approached the closest window in his range, dusts slowly leaving the frame as the tip of his steel wand touched it. He peeked inside and saw a young dark-haired woman, possibly only two years older than him, sitting in a rocking chair, stroking her round belly. The fact that Ollivander was _there_, so small and utterly fragile in the woman's womb, disturbed him. He observed the woman and found the sadness in her eyes as she sang. There were only two places at which her gaze directed: her unborn son, and the front door, expecting a person who had not come home in a long time.

"Vienna," said A thin, tall woman who just entered the room. She was old enough to be her mother, but the clothes that she wore was seemingly much more expensive than Ollivander's mother's which was a plain blue dress that reached her toes.

"Mother," Vienna greeted the older woman with the formality of a pureblood. "You've been well, I see."

"Where is he?" Vienna's mother demanded. "Your husband? Did he run off again?"

Vienna turned her attention to her belly. "Gervaise is only momentarily away. For work."

"What work? This freakish thing you call magic, again?" She asked, indignant. "This is precisely why I told you to stay away from that whole business. And that boy. You should have found someone normal with a stable job—"

"Mother," Vienna interjected with a surprisingly soft tone."Please, not around my little one."

Harry expected the mother to get even more riled up, but she simply sighed. "I do want the best for my first grandchild. But tell me this one then; how long has he been gone?"

"Two weeks or so."

There was a defeated tone in her voice, and perhaps that was why Vienna's mother didn't press the matter further. They had a little, trivial chat about their lives (mostly the mother's life, and a very little bit of Vienna's) until the mother stood to go to the loo. Harry took the opportunity to slip through the backdoor and cast a _stupefy _on her. After he dragged the unconscious woman further from the door that led to the living room, Harry entered said room and pointed the wand to the backside of Vienna's head.

"Legilimens."

He had always hated Legilimency. He hated using it and being the person receiving the end of it. The spell felt too intimate, too intrusive. Harry cringed as he saw some details of her life that he would rather not see, skipping memories through memories until he finally found the scene of Ollivander's parents standing in front of the front door. There was a suitcase next to Ollivander's father who was much older than Vienna. They were probably ten years apart, judging by their lines. The man kissed his wife goodbye, and then her belly, before heading towards the door. He said, "_I'll come back in about two weeks. It's hard to send owls without standing out too much in Biloxi. So don't send one unless I send you one first."_

The image shifted, showing Vienna on the doorway, a letter on her hands. It read, _"The situation has turned unexpectedly dire. I won't be back for another week. Please don't worry."_

He had seen enough. He dispelled the Legilimency and Vienna blinked as she was back to her surroundings. Harry's Legilimency was superior to other people—like Dumbledore or Snape, his Legilimency attempt often left the victims unknowing that their minds had been breached, but Vienna's immediately turned around and grabbed her wand.

Before she could cast anything, Harry had already disarmed her, and used petrification charm on her. He would have used _Stupefy_ in any other situation, but he was concerned by the baby in her belly. As soon as Harry obliviated Vienna and her mother, he bolted out of the house and went for the man that pursued time-travel.

Finding Gervaise Ollivander was not an easy feat. The fact that the man had traveled as far as to America was irking to Harry, but the fact that he was out of every citizen's sights was more troubling. Harry wandered around the city, asking several group of people—in some case, threatening them. It was highly unefficient, so on the second day Harry started to question people in dark alleys and used magic.

"Ahh—"

A cast of Silencio was all it needed. Harry whispered to the homeless man before him, "If you value your life, you will answer me honestly. Have you seen this man?"

He waved his wand and the image of Gervaise was projected to the wall behind him. The homeless man, flabbergasted and terrified with fear, could only shook his head. Harry sighed, stepped back and erased the homeless man's memory.

The process repeated for four days, until finally one of the men he questioned recognized Gervaise. Harry removed the silencio, and the man answered very quietly where he last saw him. Harry stepped back, nodded, and tossed him a hundred dollar. It was these small acts of kindness that made him feel less tainted.

Gervaise was staying in a small, packed inn in the middle of the city. Harry didn't know what he expected from Gervaise, but he was surprised to see the Olivander Senior lying on a single bed, under multiple layers of sheets. The bindings were up and the sunlight reached his face. He didn't seem like he wanted to sleep. For five minutes that Harry spent on the doorway, under the disillusionment charm, Gervaise did nothing but staring at the ceiling. His skin was pale, dry. It was as if he had his life sucked out of his body.

It was a second later when Harry realized that his room was full of papers. There were also burnt spots in some areas of the floor, walls and even the ceiling. Harry stepped inside carefully to avoid the papers. He glanced at them as he passed. His eyes caught several equations that he was familiar with, the ones that he knew were wrong, and even the ones that he had never heard at all.

By the time that he stood next to Gervaise, the older man shifted. He had a surprisingly excellent sense. His eyes immediately inspect the room and he tried to reach his wand which was merely thirty centimeter away from him. Unfortunately, he even lacked the energy to do so.

Harry knew the possible risks of his decision to conduct time-travel, that this man's condition of severe magical depletion might very well be his in the future. But he did know something that Ollivander's father didn't. The material of the wand was the key. Wood once had a life, which is why it rarely accepts magic without the effects of parts of magical beings, and when it does accept, it only reacts well to the one it chooses. _Wands choose the wizards. _Wood has an imprint, almost like a personality, which is why it is able to bond with humans. Wood is private, as it only absorbs magic from the wizard using it. On the other hand, steel's surface is harder to break. Steel is never alive, nor does it ever bond with any wizard. It is merely a vessel, a container that absorbs magic. Because steel is never alive, it needs huge magical input for it to react. But as soon as the magic filled the steel, the magic inside of it attracted magical particles in the air like a magnetic field. Because steel is never alive, it could contain any magic that it could find.

Gervaise looked almost pitiful. He fell over in the attempt to reach his wand. The older man groaned against the floor and Harry sighed as he elevated him back to his bed. Gervaise let out a yelp.

Harry pointed his wand at the older man and whispered, _"Legilimens_."

The first scene that welcomed Harry was a rainy city. This exact city in which they were standing. Harry frowned at this. Usually, under the Legilimency spell, the memories that resurfaced were the ones that were valuable. This scene, Gervaise taking a long, slow walk, didn't seem like anything of importance. Unless..

_Of course. _This man practiced Occlumency.

Harry tried to find a way to enter his memories, but he was stuck seeing Gervaise walking. The scene was recent, about months or so. Harry gritted his teeth with frustration as he tried to push his mind barrier, to find a loophole, but all he could do was to watch the useless of footage of Gervaise's trivial afternoon. Harry saw many things, all of them so monotonous and dull. In the scenery, there was a homeless man running away from a group of men, a purse in his hands. There was dog peeing on the wall. Children ran across the street. Cars passed by a few times, but only one stopped, just before a huge building with 'BILOXI'S MENTAL INSTITUTION' written on its board. Two people came out of it from the right door, one dragging another. It was a man in his forties and a young woman with long brown hair and a pair of bright blue eyes, full of tears.

_Her._

Harry was thrown back into reality, eyes wide. Gervaise's eyes were focused again, this time with a real touch of fear. He attempted to reach his wand again, but Harry immediately hit him with another Legilimency.

"_Father, you have to believe me—"_

The man didn't reply. He dragged Alice along with him, ignoring her muffled sobs. The vision of Alice was getting closer, until the memory Gervaise was next to her and drifted apart as he kept walking. In that small period in which they were close, Harry saw the desperation in her eyes, the defeat in her features as her feet slowly followed the man's strong hands that held her shoulders.

Harry was thrown out again. He didn't know why it was very hard to keep his grasp on Gervaise's mind. He was staring at the floor beneath him as his brain tried to comprehend what he had just seen. It was when he looked up that he realized the older man had reached his wand.

A streak of yellow light burst from Gervaise's wand, but Harry's body reacted on his own and dodged it. Almost at the same time, the red streak that came from Harry's wand blasted Gervaise against the end table, causing the physically vulnerable man to be unconscious.

His mind was void of any logical thoughts when he bolted out of the door.

* * *

><p>Finding Billoxi Mental Institution took less than ten minutes. It was a huge, white building placed near the city. Surrounded by the woods that extended far north, the building was very easy to find that night. Harry pushed the front door and went inside. His entrance immediately attracted the attention of the lady behind the front desk. She looked utterly surprised. Harry pursed his lips. These mentally-ill people didn't seem to be patients; loved people that had visitors. They were prisoners.<p>

Harry walked to the desk, placed his hands on it and said to her, "I wish to see a patient named Alice."

"I.. Sure, sir," She answered. Her hands went for the archives on her drawers, searching for the name _Alice_. Harry read the list as she did. He knew that she was telling the truth when she said, "I'm sorry, sir. There's no person named Alice here."

Harry sighed. He pointed his wand at her and cast Legilimens before she could react. And it was easy to probe into her mind—perhaps because she was a muggle. If intruding Gervaise's mind was like trying to pierce steel, intruding this lady's mind was like piercing a cheese.

After a row of faces that he couldn't care less, he finally saw her. It was the continuation of the footage in Gervaise' mind. It was the scene in which Alice was dragged by his father—by her hands and her hair. She didn't speak the entire way as she was handed over the institution staff, didn't protest, but the tears running down her face never stopped. As she was dragged away, Harry saw her Father threw a stack of dollars on the desk and wrote: _Mary Brandon._

The Legilimency stopped. Harry cleared his throat and the lady snapped out of her daze. "Is there a Mary Brandon here, then?"

"Mary.. Ah, yes," She said. "Mary Brandon. 113. Er—before you visit her, may I ask who are you and do you have the authorization from her family?"

Harry feigned confusion. "I'm her cousin. I was not told that visiting her needs authorization."

"Sir, I'm sorry, it states that any person that intends to see Mary Brandon needs to have a written authorization from the head of her family—"

And her body dropped to the ground. Harry turned to the right hallway—the direction that the woman glanced when she said number a hundred and thirteen. He walked at first, slowly and calmly. But his feet accelerated by their own, and before he realized it, he was already running. The room number a hundred and thirteen was at the very end of corridor. Its door was different than the rest; unlike the same white, wooden door, the door at the end was made of metal and had three different locks. Harry unlocked each one with no difficulty and opened the door. In the room, there were only three things: an untouched plate of food, a chair and a person on it.

There she was. He had one second to inspect her before she turned around at the sound of the door creaking, but it was all the time that he needed. She was not as thin as before. Her skin was cleaner and paler, almost as if it reflected the moonlight. Her hair was longer, reaching her hips, moving softly as the wind entered the bar of the window. She had obviously been treated better—at least physicially, judging by the lack of scars.

Harry's opinion was demolished when she turned around. Her face was as smooth as the rest of her, but what was written across it was something else entirely. He couldn't describe what it was that made her gaze so inescapable. It was as bold as before, but this time, it was hollow.

"Hello," She said softly. "You are finally arrived."

Harry tilted his head in confusion. "Finally?"

There was a ghost of smile on her lips. "I saw you."

The sound of rapid steps echoed in the hallway, but Harry paid it no mind. He held his gaze to hers. "What do you mean?"

"I saw you walking through that door," Alice said. "I've been waiting for you since."

He understood what she was saying. But still, he held his look of disbelief for the girl who stared back with confidence. Harry passed his childhood not without lies, and he had always wondered how Dumbledore or Snape could see through him. He didn't understand how easy it was until that moment. He had mastered Legilimency, but he didn't need to use it to detect lies. Her eyes held the truth.

"You see..the future?" Harry asked uncertainly. After all, truth could be subjective. Especially to the girl who was locked in a mental institution.

"Sometimes," She answered. "Most of the time they appeared out of nowhere. The only time I've managed to see by will was the time my father attempted to murder me."

That, of course, set a whole new round of questions. Harry would have asked her, but the steps were getting close and it sounded like there were at least five people running for this room. Without a word, Harry sealed the door and wrecked the wall behind her. Harry wasn't worried that the debris would crash against the girl because he knew he cast a shield in front of her, but she didn't. She stared at the huge hole with wide eyes, not of fear and surprise, but of wonder, as if Harry was showing her an amusement park.

"Oh, I've seen you do this too," She clarified. "It is different, though. Seeing it in your head and seeing it with your eyes."

He was not the one that was supposed to be baffled; she was. Perhaps he had been in the light of fame, hatred and adoration of others far too long that he had expected strong reaction for whatever he did. He searched for surprise, fear, or anything else normal behind her calm facade and there was nothing. Her reaction was undoubtedly shocking, but it was even stranger that he felt discontent about it.

When his mind was back to its surroundings, he noticed her stare. It was the same as the first time she looked at him. Confidence on her features. Intensity in her blue iris. That it irritated him was what he told himself. The truth was he felt intruded, vulnerable, as if she was looking and judging his tainted soul.

The sound of steps were much louder, and Harry knew it would be seconds until they reached the door. He quickly slammed the door shut and locked it. He turned to her again, almost hesitantly. "Let's go."

"Where?" She asked. As if it mattered. He could tell by the way she stood and followed him immediately that she would follow him even if he took her to the time in which Merlin reigned.

So he did not answer the question. She didn't press either. It was when they finally reached the edge of a river long from the mental institution when he said, "Not where. When."

For the first time that night, there was surprise in her eyes. Harry ignored the pride that crept up on him. "I thought you just age slow," She admitted. "I didn't think that for you, it probably has been months."

She was brilliant. But Harry didn't say it aloud. Instead, he asked, "Weeks. How did you know?"

Alice walked away from him, down to the river. Her feet touched the water and she shivered. "The fact that you asked me the _year _two years you somehow healed the bruises that I treated for days in seconds. That you frantically looked for the date December 31st, 1926."

Harry almost smiled. Brilliant. Not Hermione-Brilliant, but Luna-Brilliant. Hermione knew many facts and held her belief to it. Luna, on the other hand, had both intelligence and imagination, which cause her to be able to open her mind to new, seemingly-bizzare things. But she was able to be like that because she grew with magic; something that was surreal to begin with. The girl in front of him didn't. She was a normal human—with the ability to see the future.

"It's odd that you remember the date," He said, as he sat on the grass. It was rather comfortable there. Harry stretched his fingers against the grass and pulled them. It was something that he used to do at Dudley's; not a nice memory—_never _a nice memory—but it was completely ordinary. Those were the days where Harry thought pulling weeds was the hardest thing to do.

She almost smiled as she answered, "That's because the date had been stuck in my head days before I found you."

His fingers stopped. His head snapped up. She wasn't even looking at him, not realizing the importance of what she had just said. Calmly, he asked, "What?"

"I saw the date," She said again. Harry couldn't resist the annoyance that built up inside of him as she was able to make him feel like an idiot. "Not in the way that I usually do. It's in my dream. I dreamed of a constellation, and a horse and an arrow. I don't remember much, but the date's stuck in my head ever since."

Harry immediately knew what she was talking about. His mind went to Trelawney, and wondered if Alice was born a true seer—the one that could receive prophecies. It made sense, after all. There was a prophecy of a boy destined to defeat the villain. Long before, there was a prophecy that warned the world about the villain's birth.

A true seer. Exactly what he needed.

"Alice," Harry said. The name felt weird in his tongue. "Would you come with me?"

Alice's smile was radiant. "When?"

* * *

><p><strong>I'm really, really sorry for the late update. College just started and I didn't expect it to be this hectic.<strong>

**Love it, hate it, tell me in the review! Constructive criticism is always welcome.**


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